Skrom kept near as he always did.
“The Dead City,” Caivev said with bewilderment.
Skrom looked down at her. “Huh?”
She shook her head. “Nothing… just something they say about Limbus in the Prime.” Rows and rows of trimmed houses packed neat within the grid-work of streets and culverts. The Limbus she’d come to know was entirely different from the one folks thought they knew in the Prime dimension.
True, something had killed the human life in this plane long ago, maybe even the vyrm were responsible for that, but old Edenya had welcomed the foreigners from the Darque. And she knew that Limbus was anything but dead.
Things grew quieter as they walked deeper down the hillside and towards the edges of town. The uppermost layers of Limbus belonged mostly to Tarkhūn families. House size shrank and styles became less artistic as they meandered further from the center. Homes became more uniform as they went further down the slope; they’d passed into quadrants were citizens of the Black were the majority.
In the proletariat districts, a noticeable silence blanketed the neighborhoods. The Black, as a people, were less boisterous than their tarkhūn brothers and sisters. Though the houses were smaller and tended to be single-story as earthen hut-like dwellings, light poured from windows and modern conveniences were easily spotted if you knew where to look.
Heads popped up in windows. A child waved with big eyes and a scaly grin. Caivev waved back. The district was casted such that visitors of any renown were uncommon in it.
All heads turned to the noise at a nearby intersection. A group of Black vyrm dragged a woman and her child through the streets.
“Stop,” Caivev commanded.
They either did not hear her or refused her order. Skrom stepped into their midst. His size and booming voice finally got their attention, “Lady Caivev said stop!”
One of the vyrm hissed. “We are on a mission of law,” he said. The ruffians finally spotted Caivev and recognized her. They bowed briefly and remained at one knee, still holding their prey in clutches of hair and flesh.
“Apologies, we did not recognize you,” claimed another. “The heir apparent of Nitthogr will always be obeyed by the Black.”
Caivev nodded and signaled for them to stand, even if something distasteful about her past allegiances lingered in her mouth. She recognized that her zeal for the old ways had lessened since her marriage, but especially so in the last couple weeks. “What do you have here? What is your mission?”
Their leader stood. “I am Jeerzha, leader of the Limbus Hunters Guild,” he stated proudly.
“I have not heard of you. Do you often hunt women and children?” Caivev asked with a disguised disdain.
Jeerzha’s lips curled to reveal his sharp teeth. “No. We hunt Seekers of Maetha! It is known that you have done the same in the past. It is more than sport to us… we do this in honor and service to Sh’logath!”
Caivev watched Jeerzha; she’d once possessed similar fanaticism. Turning her eyes to the woman, she asked, “How do you know she is a Seeker? She does not look like a rover.”
“We are not all rovers, my lady,” the woman admitted. “I have lived all my life in Limbus.”
“You say we, so what… you just decided to change your beliefs?” Caivev asked.
The woman nodded measuredly. “I was raised in a lie. Truth discovered me, and I chose to accept it. He can verify.” She looked at one of the vyrm males who held her captive.
He snarled, “My wife is no liar—whatever else she may be. But heresy cannot stand.”
Jeerzha turned his attention back to Caivev. “The heretics must be purged. The law commands it. We only await the order… we were on our way to see High Priest Charsk and fulfill our commission… but you are the leader of the Black—you could grant it?”
“Must we kill them?” Caivev asked.
“The writings are clear,” Jeerzha stiffened. “Death sentences are common, but not demanded as punishment.” He looked at Caivev’s honor guard and sized them up.
Caivev gave them each a glance from the corner of her eyes. The Tarkhūn seemed indifferent, but members of the Black clearly sympathized with Jeerzha. She had noticed that the lesser faction had grown unruly these last couple days, but she couldn’t reason why.
Jeerzha continued, “What do you say that we should do with them? We are one vyrmkind now, but these Tarkhūn have been content to dwell in Limbus for generations and have refused to stamp them out from the outlier lands. Basilisk’s apathy has been the same as leniency! But what do you say, leader of the Black?” He stared at her, awaiting an answer.
Caivev looked into the eyes of the woman prisoner and her child who clearly shared his mother’s beliefs. She felt compassion for her and remembered being rescued by rovers at Sharonash; she had hoped she could repay that debt in some small part. “Woman. Would you forsake Maetha in return for sparing your life?”
Her voice trembled, and she hugged her young son to her side. “I am sorry, my Lady, but I cannot.”
Caivev looked from face to face in the small mob. She could tell that something was brewing—something larger than this mere encounter. Bloodlust had already set in the eyes of Jeerzha and his peers; they were ready to break free at a moment’s notice. Only violence would abate them.
“Then your judgment is pronounced,” Caivev said. “Jeerzha, do as you wish with her.”
“Kill her!” howled the woman’s husband.
Jeerzha yelled, “For Sh’logath! Hail the mighty Devourer!”
The Maethan woman and child barely uttered a peep as the mob tore them to pieces. Caivev walked stoically past, turning at the intersection to a path that rose back towards the center of Limbus.
She could not shake the foreboding feeling that something significant stirred in her people: something that she did not yet know or understand.
***
Earth
Sisyphus smiled as if returning home after a long time away. The groggy bodies of sedated men and women barely responded as he triumphantly entered the room.
A row of them stood along the wall, propped up by the restraints and arranged like mummies. They looked shaggy and downtrodden like homeless vagrants stolen from off the street; nobody ever asked Doctor Walther where he collected his subjects that supplied power to the portal device. Thin tubes connected to their arms and drew blood away as needed to operate the dimensional splitter.
The blood donors barely stirred as Sisyphus entered the room he passed through their chamber and into the adjacent room. Sisyphus wasn’t there for them, anyhow. He was there for the scrawny man chained to the bed in the center of a private room.
“My guest of honor,” Sisyphus roused him. “I’m glad you’re awake to see what we’re accomplishing.
Sisyphus’s doppelganger looked up at him and his eyes barely focused. The restrained man looked like the wrestler’s identical twin except that his muscles had atrophied and he was unshaven.
“Lookie here,” said the hulking brute. Sisyphus brandished the collection of darquematter amulets. “Soon I will be the most powerful creature on the planet. Ain’t nothing can stop me—especially as long as I have your blood to keep me going strong, Jarfig.”
Professor Jarfig met his gaze, keenly aware of the pain in his arm where the bleeder contraption harvested his life energies. “I… I won’t let you do this.”
“Heh. You’re in no condition to stop me, weakling.” Sisyphus looked down at the withered version of himself. Even before being captured from the Prime dimension, the wrestler had scorned his Prime version. Deep down he condescended any who didn’t strive for peak physical perfection—at least he loathed his own dimensional variant.
“Nobody’s coming to save you, Professor. You’re mine… and you’re too weak to do anything about it.”
Jarfig looked into Sisyphus’s eyes. The wrestler found the connection unnerving.
“I’m stronger than you realize,” Jarfig insisted.
&nb
sp; “You’re the weakest version of us,” Sisyphus argued, more loudly than necessary.
A glimmer formed in Jarfig’s eye; he knew he’d rattled the big man. “Not all strength comes from the human muscle,” he insisted.
Sisyphus scowled and then hit a button on the bleeder machine, ordering it to draw an unsafe amount.
Jarfig gasped and then lost consciousness.
***
The Desolation
Chartarra sat in the leadership circle along with a few others. Something weighty about the responsibility of being in the assembly pressed against his thoughts.
Klewdahar, who had organized this council was there, along with Trenzlr and Gerjha. “Much is happening,” Klewdahar said. “Brothers, we are in the midst of the greatest days. I expect that, based on Gerjha’s prophesies, we shall be the generation that sees the dawn of Maetha and the restoration of Edenya.”
A murmur of assent rippled through the room.
Klewdahar continued, “We are here, each picked because of our unique background, experience, or knowledge, to make sure that we guide our people into the truth as effectively and as strategically as possible. We know that Maetha uses individuals for his purposes, like how he has spoken through Gerjha.”
Trenzlr piped up. “I am honored that you thought of me for your council,” he said, “but I do not feel worthy to…”
Klewdahar interrupted him. “Duly noted. You and every other one here has issued that same objection. I would not accept your resignation if it was offered. If you are here, now, it is from a basis of responsibility—not because of vanity.”
Trenzlr nodded and relaxed into his seated posture.
Chartarra sat forward. “I have an issue we should discuss.”
All eyes looked to him.
“You all know my story. I was a soldier of the Black before Maetha found me; working directly below Caivev, I had great influence and authority, and I should have died in the refuse pits beyond Limbus. Like so many others, I followed Caivev’s leadership as a fanatical loyalist of Sh’logath… until everything changed. This has never happened to me before, but two nights ago I had a vision while I slept.”
“A dream?” one of the older Seekers asked.
“This was not a dream,” Chartarra said. “I wonder if anyone else reported a vision? Based on its nature, I believe I am not alone in receiving it, and that it foretells a great evil that is calling out, trying to seduce soldiers for its cause.”
“What do you mean?” Klewdahar asked for clarification.
“Nitthogr has returned, at least in this vision. I fear it may be more than a metaphor—he might actually be back. He claimed to be the incarnate Acolyte of Sh’logath and is rallying for war.” Chartarra swallowed audibly. “I felt compelled to muster with his other agents. Before I was fully awake and could resist the impulse, I found myself outside in the morning dawn. Based on that, I do think I represent a liability to this circle and hope you will reconsider my resignation.”
Klewdahar frowned. “You resisted?”
Chartarra nodded.
“Then you belong to Maetha and not Sh’logath. I will not release you from service.”
Chartarra bobbed his head and spoke with measured words. “There is one more thing, Chief Klewdahar.” He chose his words carefully as all hung on each one. “In the streets, there was one other person. I saw the madness in his eyes, his devotion to the agod.”
“Who was it?” an older member of the tribe asked.
“Klyrtan was there.”
All eyes moved to Klewdahar.
“Well… I’m sure that was a mere coincidence,” Klewdahar stammered. “He was probably up early looking for Hirdac. He sometimes does that. He’s a good kid. I’m sure anyone who’s spent time with him would attest that he’s a good Maethan, right Trenzlr?”
Trenzlr stiffened, somehow called on to provide character witness for the boy he’d wronged decades ago. Klewdahar looked at him in such a way that he felt dread and guilt for his part in Klyrtan’s stupefying as a child. “Klyrtan is simple,” he said. “It must be as Chief Klewdahar says.”
Reluctant nods circulated the room, all except for Gerjha the Prophet, who took everything in with cold indifference.
“What I am most interested in discussing, is the prophecy that Maetha may come to us as a dunnischktet,” Klewdahar said.
“It cannot possibly be Basilisk, and Nitthogr is dead,” said the Seeker on the far side of the circle.
Another asked, “What of the new one, the third dunnischktet, this Caivev?”
Chartarra perked up. “Excuse me, what? Caivev is dunnischkte?”
Nods answered him. “Even I had heard that,” said Trenzlr, “and I spent most of these last couple years hiding in the Prime.”
Chartarra looked from face to face, trying to guess at the accuracy of such a rumor. The nomadic rovers did not have a clear supply for information. “If this is true then I must visit her,” he insisted.
Klewdahar furrowed his brow. “I’m not sure that it is a good idea to…”
“But if there is a prophecy saying that she could become a tool of Maetha, someone must go. Perhaps this is how it happens—how she is turned away from evil.”
Other faces from the circle looked at Klewdahar, daring to hope that Chartarra could be right.
Klewdahar’s face softened. “You are still so new to us, Chartarra. You may be right, but…”
“But nothing. It has to be me. I was loyal to her for years, and now, out of our number only I have a chance of getting through to her. This is why Maetha spared me from these fatal wounds—it is my purpose; He has been preparing me for this task.”
The others looked at him. None spoke, but they all clearly thought the same outcome was likely.
Trenzlr finally spoke up, “You will almost certainly die. She is married to Basilisk, now. The task is insurmountable… but the rewards could be that much greater.”
“Even if I die,” said Chartarra, “I will be like a seed going into the ground, perhaps it will bloom into something far better.”
“Fine,” said Klewdahar. “But take a team with you. If you die, we will want a report of it so we know how to proceed in regard to the Empress.”
Chartarra nodded.
“I will go with him,” said Trenzlr. “We will find two others and form a company of secret travelers.” He turned and embraced his cousin.
“Maetha’s blessings,” Gerjha said.
Klewdahar bit his lip, but nodded with agreement.
Trenzlr and Chartarra rose and departed at once.
***
Earth
Shandra took a step backwards to the door and motioned for Sam to hand her the hammer she’d left in the room. He recognized the worried look on her face and tip-toed over with the weapon.
He marveled at its weight as he hefted it, but knew that she’d learned to wield it expertly under Master Druen. Sam followed her down the hall as she called out, stalking whoever had invaded their privacy. “Is that you Mister Rath?”
She stepped past the threshold of the room where she suspected an intruder might have retreated, but found nothing. Shandra walked a circle and checked any potential hiding places before returning to the hall.
“I’m not going crazy, am I? Did you hear it?”
He looked down to avoid eye contact. Maybe a little crazy. He hadn’t heard a thing. “Um, Shandra,” he asked, “you didn’t move the amulets that Miles had been collecting for Claire, did you?”
She shook her head and joined him by the buffet table where the puzzle box sat empty. Someone had been there and he or she had stolen the artifacts.
Sam believed her intruder theory and whirled, startled when someone knocked at the door, making him jump. He rested a hand on his chest to calm his rapid heart and motioned for Shandra to lower her weapon, or at least hold it out of sight.
He walked to the door and checked the peephole before opening it. “Can I help you?”
T
he man outside barged into the house at the first opportunity. “Where is he? I’m looking for someone named Zabe.”
Sam tilted his head and took stock of the new invader. He was a slightly unkempt man, average build but with a strong frame; his haggard appearance looked more like the product of over-productive, sleepless nights than poor hygiene. The archaeologist recognized Respan’s darque scanner mounted above his brow. “Who are you? How do you know Zabe and Respan?”
The man paused to meet Sam’s gaze. He stated flatly, “I don’t know them. Tay-lore sent me to stop the end of the world, or something like that.”
“Tay-lore?” Shandra asked. “Is something wrong at home; how is he?”
“Tay-lore’s dead,” he said with a cold edge. “He was my friend and now he’s gone.” He stuck out a hand and introduced himself. “I’m Vikrum Wiltshire.”
Sam wiggled a finger by his face to indicate the wearable tech. “A mutual friend of mine and Tay-lore’s built this; his name was Respan. How did you get it?”
“Tay-lore sent it to me. He said I needed to find a werewolf named Zabe or Nitthogr would rise.”
Both Sam and Shandra froze when he named the enemy. They looked at him like a deer in the headlights and so Wiltshire continued talking.
He tapped the side of the lensed reticle. “This thing indicated a strong signal here, and it was close from the place where Tay-lore sent it…”
“The gate at the old church?” Shandra clarified.
Wiltshire nodded. “I had hoped that the signal might have been this Zabe…”
Sam interrupted this time. “He is my daughter’s fiance; Zabe disappeared a little while ago. He needed some time to himself—some space—and we allowed him to have it.”
“I’m sure she must be so happy,” Wiltshire snarked, trying to complete his thoughts. “It was only a few minutes ago when I activated this thing. Right before I got to the house the signal disappeared completely. It just blipped out of existence.”
Shandra and Sam turned to each other. “The thief,” she growled.
Wiltshire leaned in conspiratorially. “I’m chasing a thief as well. Yours doesn’t happen to travel through a high-tech triangle portal that can create doors through the fabric of time and space?”
The Architect King Page 14
